


lean on me (platonically)

by dollsome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comfort and bickering don't have to be mutually exclusive. (Ron and Hermione at the end of Order of the Phoenix.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	lean on me (platonically)

Ron never knows what to do when she cries; Hermione knows that, but this time, she can't help it. She feels like she's spent an eternity not crying -- for Harry. For Sirius, who she thinks would've wanted them not to cry, for Harry’s sake. It scares her to look at Harry now. She's very good at knowing things but she doesn't know if Harry will ever get better. Not after this.  
  
"I hate not knowing," is what she tells Ron, curled up in the corner of the common room sofa after everyone else has gone to bed, Crookshanks in her lap. "I hate not knowing what to do."  
  
She thinks he might make fun of her -- it's such a  _stupid_  thing to say -- but he doesn't. She feels a little guilty; she never quite trusts him to be as good as he almost always is.  
  
"Yeah," is all he says, and he sinks down next to her. Even though he's at least a little terrified of her right now; she can tell. Every time she lets out a sob, he flinches. He's such a  _boy_. She loves him. She loves them both so much, and after this, it seems like the most foolish thing in the world. To love someone like that. What if they--  
  
That leads to the worst sob yet.  
  
"Hey," Ron says, valiantly closing the space between them, rubbing her back with one awkward hand. (His finger stumbles over her bra strap just a little, and freezes for a few seconds, and she hates herself for noticing that now, after everything that's happened, and for wearing such thin t-shirts, and for liking his fingers on her skin so much, and for paying it any attention to begin with) "Now, don't -- Hermione -- hey, it's all right, isn't it?"  
  
"No!" she says, and it comes out very indignant. She hadn't meant it to.  
  
"Well, blimey!" he says -- sort of quietly bellows, really. "I know that. It's just what people say. I was just trying to make you feel better. Clearly, I shouldn't have bothered."  
  
"Oh, don't," she said, even though secretly she finds it even more comforting than his hand on her back, somehow. "Let's not fight."  
  
"Fine," he grumbles.  
  
She narrows her eyes at him. "Don't be mad."  
  
His expression softens, looking at her. Probably because she looks a horrible mess, all tearstained and blotchy. "I'm not mad."  
  
"Good," she says.  
  
"Good," he agrees.  
  
Her arm is pressed against his. She is extremely, extremely aware of it. She sneaks a glance at him, and suspects he might be too. Does he always sit up that straight?  
  
"There," he says then, quite triumphantly. "See? I've stopped you crying!"  
  
"Oh, you did not," Hermione says, rolling her eyes. "I just stopped crying."  
  
"Because of me," Ron says, grinning.  
  
"Not because of you!" Hermione argues. "Just because I happened to stop crying."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, Hermione," he says, "deny it all you like. But we both know--"  
  
"Maybe I stopped crying because I know perfectly well that  _you_  simply aren't equipped to handle an emotionally distressed person."  
  
He frowns. "What's that s'posed to mean?"  
  
"I think I was clear."  
  
"I hate it when you cry."  
  
"Oh, come off it," Hermione says impatiently. "I'm not as bad as Cho Chang--"  
  
"Not like that," Ron interrupts, none too patient himself. "I just ... hate seeing you sad, that's all."  
  
"Oh," she says in a small voice.  
  
They just look at each other. Crookshanks stares back and forth between them with vague interest. Hermione sort of wishes she'd thought to get a less discerning pet.  
  
"I hate seeing you sad, too," she volunteers.  
  
"Thanks," Ron says awkwardly.  
  
"Of course," she says.  _Idiot,_  she thinks (about herself, for once).  
  
"I hate seeing Harry sad," Ron says then. His voice wavers just a bit on the last word. Her heart breaks a little, or maybe falls. Flops, at least.  
  
"I know," she says, biting her lip. "Me too."  
  
He puts his arm around her again. This time, he cups her shoulder with his palm, and she leans into him when he pulls her closer. God, he drives her mental. She can't imagine her life without him.  
  
"What the hell're we going to do?" he says hoarsely.  
  
"Oh, Ron," she says, trying to keep the lump in her throat out of her voice, "I don't know."  
  
She rests her head against his shoulder. After a few moments of silence, of deliberate not-crying, he puts his head on top of hers. She fights back a whole new stupid wave of tears at that -- why does he have to be so sweet sometimes? -- and finds herself concentrating, instead, on the collar of his t-shirt and on the fact that his neck is very close to her lips all of a sudden. She's mostly thinking about not crying, and not about fancying her best friend (not that she does, she  _doesn't_ ), and that's why she kisses his neck. Just once, and stupidly, and it's mostly just the cotton of his t-shirt, but her top lip grazes his warm skin.  
  
He tenses; his fingers curl hard around her shoulder.  
  
Panic flurries through her.  
  
"Forget it," she says, not quite sure of what she's saying, "that was--"  
  
"Right," he says dazedly, "right."  
  
She shoots up off of the couch on pure instinct, only to discover one of her feet is asleep and she has no idea where to go. She doesn't want to go to bed, to a dormitory of girls who keep looking at her with sympathetic eyes because Harry's gone mad. She doesn't want to be without Ron, not right now.  
  
He looks up at her, eyes wide.  
  
"You want to read?" he blurts out.  
  
"Read?" she repeats, baffled.  
  
He seems to realize just how bizarre the question was, but now there's no getting away from it. "Er, yeah, sure," he says, casually (a bit too casually) pulling one of the crimson couch cushions onto his lap. She thinks her cheeks must be more crimson than the couch cushion. "Um. Together, I mean. If, um, you'd like to. What is it you've got there?"  
  
"A biography of Rowena Ravenclaw," Hermione says slowly.  
  
"Excellent, Ravenclaw," Ron says. "Let's, shall we?"  
  
Hermione eyes him suspiciously, but his (pretty unconvincing) expression of interest doesn't disappear.  
  
"Oh, fine," she sighs, and grabs the book off the table.  
  
She reads a few sentences aloud, feeling foolish. Then Ron takes over in stuffy and extremely Percy-ish tones. She tries not to laugh, and to exude as much disapproval as possible. It doesn't go very well. Thank goodness.


End file.
